


Warm

by dabs_into_oblivion



Series: ineffable husbands [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24607540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabs_into_oblivion/pseuds/dabs_into_oblivion
Summary: When Crowley Fell, he thought he would never be warm again.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: ineffable husbands [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713622
Comments: 2
Kudos: 64





	Warm

Something thumped in his chest.

Thousands of years later, curled up in the arms of his angel, he would try to describe how it felt. Jumping into an icy swimming pool? Something cold, anyway. Phantom hands that were his and also not his had twisted his halo, snapped it, shaped it into horns that blackened and sent the blackness outward to his wings.

He became aware of an intense, sharp pain in his chest. He opened his mouth to scream and found air rushing in, dulling the pain. Was this breathing?

It was a beautiful, sunny day, and Crowley could not stop shivering.

\--------

The first time the angel touched him was an accident. Aziraphale was reaching past him for something, Crowley was pretending to care, and Aziraphale's arm brushed against his. Crowley froze.

The angel retrieved the object -- a book, naturally -- and continued chatting away as though nothing extraordinary had taken place. Crowley willed the warmth in that one spot in his arm to stay as he turned his attention back to his ~~adversary~~ friend.

He missed the way the angel touched his own arm after they parted, eyes half shut, lips barely parted; if Crowley had seen this he would have immediately melted into the ground.

\--------

Gradually, over the centuries, touching became something they Didn't do, not explicitly but by mutual tacit agreement. Crowley never forgot the angel's warmth, and as much as he detested both Heaven and Hell, he begrudgingly admitted to himself that he missed being warm. No amount of fire-breathing or clothing could come close to the heat of Aziraphale's touch, and as the Earth became more populated it was getting more difficult to lie outside in snake form soaking up sunlight. Not that that helped much, either.

When they shook hands -- first to swap bodies and then to swap back -- Crowley schooled his face into an emotionless mask. After all, that's what demons did, wasn't it? Hide feelings. He'd mucked that up by practically crying when he'd thought Aziraphale was gone and he wasn't going to add insult to injury now. He made some comment about tartan to tease the angel and make him think everything was normal, to which Aziraphale replied in an affronted tone, "Tartan is _stylish_."

They ate lunch. Crowley, as usual, barely ate. He didn't know why today was worse than the other days; he only knew that the longing he'd felt for six thousand years might make him burst. He'd thought he was longing for the warmth he'd lost. Adam Young had been warm, though. The angels who'd tried to kill Aziraphale had been warm. Crowley hadn't wanted them to touch him.

"My dear," Aziraphale was saying, low and gentle, "you don't look very well. Should I take you home?"

"Mph. Home. Yes." What was he saying? He didn't want to go home to his horribly cold and lonely flat; even the plants were no substitute for his angel.

Aziraphale fiddled with his cuffs. "I don't think you should drive. I'll call a cab."

Crowley was in no state to argue with this. It was only as Aziraphale helped him out of the cab in front of the bookshop that he began to come to his senses. Aziraphale was _touching_ him. He'd brought him to the bookshop.

Aziraphale's hand stayed on Crowley's back, guiding him inside and to the sofa. Crowley sat numbly, unable to think about anything except that glowing nub of heat on his back. Aziraphale sat next to him. They were silent.

Crowley's eyes snapped open. The lights were still on, he was still on the sofa -- his head was in Aziraphale's lap. The angel's head had fallen sideways, his chest still because angels don't need to breathe, one hand on Crowley's shoulder and the other almost, _almost_ in his hair. Crowley hadn't been this warm since . . . he blinked. How could he be sure the angel wanted him here?

Aziraphale stirred, opened his eyes. "I do apologise, I sleep so rarely, I think I must have been a little shaken up by the events of the past few days -- "

Before Crowley could think about what he was doing, he was pressing a finger to the angel's lips. "Shh, angel. It's all right. I was asleep too."

Aziraphale's eyes widened at the demon intentionally touching him. "You -- you were. I didn't want to disturb you, although I did wonder if you might be more comfortable in a bed . . . ?"

"I'm comfortable anywhere as long as it has you," said Crowley, masking his anxiety with lazy flirtatiousness, looking anywhere but into Aziraphale's eyes.

Slowly, Aziraphale raised his free hand to his face, taking Crowley's. The demon repressed a shudder of -- joy? pleasure? The human words for emotions left so much to be desired.

"I did wonder," the angel murmured, "about bringing you here, but I wouldn't have felt right leaving you alone, and that flat of yours is so cold and dark and it doesn't feel like a home."

Crowley shut his eyes. Was he being deliberately obtuse? "Aziraphale, my home is wherever you are." He paused, then, "As long as I can bring some of my plants. The best-behaved ones."

"Mm." The angel's other hand moved from Crowley's shoulder down his arm. "Could you sit up, my dear?"

Crowley opened his eyes. The artificial light shone in a little halo around Aziraphale's head. Crowley really didn't want to leave the warmth of the angel's body, and he considered protesting, but he also didn't want to upset Aziraphale.

As soon as Crowley was upright, Aziraphale took the demon's face in his hands and kissed him.

_Oh._

This was more than heat, it was electricity. Tears pricked at the corners of Crowley's eyes as he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, pulled him closer. Slowly the warmth started to seep into his bones, radiating through his body in a way he'd thought he'd never feel again. Aziraphale tasted sweet, like the pastries he'd eaten at lunch. Crowley had never understood why he ate them and now he didn't care.

Eventually the angel pulled away far enough to whisper, "I love you, Crowley," and Crowley burst into tears and clung to him with all of his strength.

The next day they went together to collect the Bentley and from there to Crowley's flat to pack his things. Crowley touched Aziraphale every chance he got; he would never tire of the warmth or his angel's smile.


End file.
